Wedding bells
The other day, I went to a wedding with my Chimneypot (nee Nutcracker) and we even did the Wedding March. It was great fun, as we'd tanked up on ruby red sparkling wine before that, and the sumptuous high was aided by the simply delicious caramel chocolates that had been placed beside each guest's plate. And yes, I truly adore Christian weddings now...!
But Chimneypot was a bridesmaid, and so she was always going away now and then to ghus-phus with the other bridesmaids. After trip No. 3 or 4, she says very shamefacedly, "They all think you're my boyfriend. They keep asking me if you are."
CT, bored, as this has happened countless times before: "Yawn, yawn. Yes, and the maid of honour has got such a SEXY boyfriend."
Chimneypot, whining now: "But they think you're my boyfriend...!"
CT, intrigued now: "So let's pretend...! Let's play that game."
Chimneypot, interested a bit: "Should we?"
CT: "Of course we must. Now join me in bitching about that ugly mug of a maid in honour."
Chimneypot, giggling over her fourth glass of wine: "She walks on those frikkin' heels as if she were an ostrich!"
CT, giggling now too: "She certainly has the legs of one!"
Chimneypot: "And that fat arse of hers could fit a football yard in. No wonder she got all the boys in London, when *Blushing Bride* didn't!"
CT: "I'm in love with her boyfriend. Can I kill her?"
When we proceeded to join the Wedding March, you could see my office mates' eyes pop, and even Blushing Bride was suitably surprised, though she knows I'm gay. We ate our dinner together, standing in a corner, and yapping. I went out of the hall with Chimneypot when she wanted to smoke, and when we came back, Ugly Maid of Honour was peering intently at her dress for signs of upheaval. When the DJ started playing Rouge later at night, Chimneypot and I did the dirty dance, forgetting that we had some middle class Aunties staring at us.... and I'm not just talking about Ugly Maid of Honour here.
;-)
Strange. I guess heteros will never understand that *thing* which gay men and fag hags have. We're special for each other, to each other. I'm not sure I get the whole picture myself.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
Picture this
Picture this
There's been so much furore/squibbling/speculation about the famous pic and the famous boxer shots, that I thought I'd make it the subject of a post. Phal calls it the "scandalous pic", Guppie says I look like a slut in it, and d/d frankly calls me "nanga" when he comes online and sees me there.
;-)
Terrible, actually, but the fact of the matter is that I just don't have a decent picture online to seduce the other hopefuls.
I have five pictures online. The first picture is a closeup of my face some eons back in the college canteen, where I flash my pearly whites. Killer smile, but the online connoisseurs say, it makes me look chubby. Aaa, it's a throwback to my college days when I weighed in a at a hefty 77 kg, so I suppose the connoisseurs are justified in that take.
Then, there's the picture from last Christmas, when I visited the Sunderbans with family. This one shows me straddling (love that word!) a boat, and smiling gleefully, hair windblown and all. But of course, this was winter, so I was wearing a chunky woollen turtleneck, so even though I was a very svelte 62 kgs by the time this pic was taken, I look well... hefty again. Damn.
If you thought I was going to be third time lucky, you're sadly mistaken. This one has me on Marve beach about three years back, so it's a facial close-up of The Podge once again, albeit with gleaming Pepsodent smile. To make matters worse, it was raining that day on Marve, so I'm wearing my hooded jacket and smiling, looking like Darth Vader who's slipped off the diet wagon. Not very seductive, you understand.
Onto number four. Hyderabad. This is studious me. Thin, yes. Not a close-up, yes. Great view of the Charminar framed behind me. But... sigh. I'd gone to Hyderabad that time with friends for a job interview, and the pic was taken after the interview, so there you have me looking quite undernourished, completely shabby spectacles, shirt looking quite worn, your neighbourhood courier guy. Compare and contrast with the pictures other cute men have online, all polished and studio shots or sexy sleevless tees, and I lag hopelessly behind in the attractive segment.
Which finally leads me to the "nanga" pic. By this time, I'd had enough. So, I roped in a helpful friend who's moved out of Bombay since then, and went over to his place to make use of his digicam. What followed was an hour long session of posing in black cord shorts, underwear, sheets and even curtains. We experimented with lighting, played with composition and tripped on style. When we examined the pictures later, it was a laugh riot. I hit my friend on the head and told him he was completely hopeless, and he agreed. The only bit of salvageable material was the (in)famous "nanga" pic.
Actually, when you come to think of it, there's nothing much too scandalous about it - especially when you check out all the pictures other hot men have. It has me in this funny inverse pose on a staircase, wearing the black cord shots, and yes, nothing else. I'm smling beatifically at the camera, but let me assue you, it was bloody torture holding that silly pose for the full five minutes my pal was taking with the snap, and I was cursing him silly under that smile. I labelled the pic on gay.com, Chocolate?, and yes, I've had a lot of associated corny comments thrown my way, by prospective mates when they see it.
But here's the rub: I may not look hefty in that pic, and I may even be exposing some saleable skin there, but... my hair's not like that anymore. At that time, I'd decided to experiment, and shaved my hair down to a buzz cut. Punk from Gay Bombay? ;-) And so, now, whenever I get those corny comments about chocolate, I have to hurry and add, that my hair is quite 'normal' now, and not like in the pic - at which point, they look confusedly at the other pictures and shake their head perplexed.
Losing battle, but o, I do plan to get buzzed soon.
There's been so much furore/squibbling/speculation about the famous pic and the famous boxer shots, that I thought I'd make it the subject of a post. Phal calls it the "scandalous pic", Guppie says I look like a slut in it, and d/d frankly calls me "nanga" when he comes online and sees me there.
;-)
Terrible, actually, but the fact of the matter is that I just don't have a decent picture online to seduce the other hopefuls.
I have five pictures online. The first picture is a closeup of my face some eons back in the college canteen, where I flash my pearly whites. Killer smile, but the online connoisseurs say, it makes me look chubby. Aaa, it's a throwback to my college days when I weighed in a at a hefty 77 kg, so I suppose the connoisseurs are justified in that take.
Then, there's the picture from last Christmas, when I visited the Sunderbans with family. This one shows me straddling (love that word!) a boat, and smiling gleefully, hair windblown and all. But of course, this was winter, so I was wearing a chunky woollen turtleneck, so even though I was a very svelte 62 kgs by the time this pic was taken, I look well... hefty again. Damn.
If you thought I was going to be third time lucky, you're sadly mistaken. This one has me on Marve beach about three years back, so it's a facial close-up of The Podge once again, albeit with gleaming Pepsodent smile. To make matters worse, it was raining that day on Marve, so I'm wearing my hooded jacket and smiling, looking like Darth Vader who's slipped off the diet wagon. Not very seductive, you understand.
Onto number four. Hyderabad. This is studious me. Thin, yes. Not a close-up, yes. Great view of the Charminar framed behind me. But... sigh. I'd gone to Hyderabad that time with friends for a job interview, and the pic was taken after the interview, so there you have me looking quite undernourished, completely shabby spectacles, shirt looking quite worn, your neighbourhood courier guy. Compare and contrast with the pictures other cute men have online, all polished and studio shots or sexy sleevless tees, and I lag hopelessly behind in the attractive segment.
Which finally leads me to the "nanga" pic. By this time, I'd had enough. So, I roped in a helpful friend who's moved out of Bombay since then, and went over to his place to make use of his digicam. What followed was an hour long session of posing in black cord shorts, underwear, sheets and even curtains. We experimented with lighting, played with composition and tripped on style. When we examined the pictures later, it was a laugh riot. I hit my friend on the head and told him he was completely hopeless, and he agreed. The only bit of salvageable material was the (in)famous "nanga" pic.
Actually, when you come to think of it, there's nothing much too scandalous about it - especially when you check out all the pictures other hot men have. It has me in this funny inverse pose on a staircase, wearing the black cord shots, and yes, nothing else. I'm smling beatifically at the camera, but let me assue you, it was bloody torture holding that silly pose for the full five minutes my pal was taking with the snap, and I was cursing him silly under that smile. I labelled the pic on gay.com, Chocolate?, and yes, I've had a lot of associated corny comments thrown my way, by prospective mates when they see it.
But here's the rub: I may not look hefty in that pic, and I may even be exposing some saleable skin there, but... my hair's not like that anymore. At that time, I'd decided to experiment, and shaved my hair down to a buzz cut. Punk from Gay Bombay? ;-) And so, now, whenever I get those corny comments about chocolate, I have to hurry and add, that my hair is quite 'normal' now, and not like in the pic - at which point, they look confusedly at the other pictures and shake their head perplexed.
Losing battle, but o, I do plan to get buzzed soon.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Typ(o)s
Typ(o)s
So like I've explained before, the top three questions in any gay chat online are:
1. A/S/L?
2. Have place?
3. What are you looking for?
There's also a fourth here, actually, which springs into use when you don't have a picture of the other person to check out: What's your type? And this is where that great big phenomenon called the Gay Sort comes in.
In case you had no idea before, gay men can be divided neatly and without much of a whimper, into 'sorts'. As the gay interior designer/ decorator explains, he looks at the entire exercise as a folder, with its own little partitions, A-Z, which have little leaflets bearing the biodata of several personable and not-so-personable young and old men. So when he feels like he's in the mood, he flips the folder over to type 'A' and dials a man. Simple and sweet.
What are the types, then? Well, the porn sites online delineate gay men according to body type. So, we have a) the bears, big and swarthy, with oodles of body hair, b) the twinks, fresh and bratty and below 19 years of age, c) the hunks, who're between 20 and 35 years old, call the gym their second home, and don't have too much body hair, d) the matures, who're the oldies above 40 years, and so on and so forth. There are also several subcategories here, for example, the bearcubs, who're not so hairy and not chubby at all and quite young, and the cute guys, who're in the same age group as the hunks, though they may not have the rugged muscles, and they make up for that lack with a certain twinkle in their eyes or their smiles. For the thinking man alone, beware.
;-)
And then, there are the other types, that personable young gay men like d/d and I decide upon, over a glass of chilled white wine and a story about an ex. There's the penguin, who's the very nice young guy but who fcuks your love life completely because he's not in the same emotional space that you are, and it's so much more fun to blame the other guy than it is to blame yourself. There's also the cute, but unattractive tag that fits some guys - the classic guy who's perfect for a relationship, has excellent taste, but you're simply not sexually attracted to him. There's the underage kid, who's really not that underage at 21-22, but then you hate the idea of being in a relationship with someone who's always going to be the 'younger one' and for whom you'll have to be the 'mature guy', so that there's no hope in hell that there'll be anyone to handle your tantrums when they come. There's the other twenty-one year old skanks, whom you despise, because they get all the attention at every damn gay gathering, just because they're twenty-one and you're twenty-four, though they're more or less on the same cuteness scale as you.
And a million others.
So that, when you get asked that question, What's your type?, you have a vast array of answers to choose from. And yet, I wonder if it's ever possible to choose. I never can, actually.
Take me for instance. I would probably fit the bill as the cute guy between 20 and 30 years old, who can also be a sort of bear cub. But what's my type? Tough question. The guys I've dated have been all sorts, really. Bearcub, muscle-hunk, penguin, cute but unattractive, underage kid, yadayadayada. So, very often, the Great Folder Theory just comes a cropper.
But the importance of classification is very often not for rigid swearing-by. That's never the case, even in science, the motherlode of classification theory. You need the theory as a sort of yardstick, and sometimes, for nothing but to measure how you've changed. Types are not meant to remain as the be-all and the end-all, as in I slept with a bearcub when I was eighteen, so that means I'm always attracted to bears, but rather to see how you make that progression from a bear to a penguin.
In case I forgot to say so earlier, Welcome to the Zoo.
So like I've explained before, the top three questions in any gay chat online are:
1. A/S/L?
2. Have place?
3. What are you looking for?
There's also a fourth here, actually, which springs into use when you don't have a picture of the other person to check out: What's your type? And this is where that great big phenomenon called the Gay Sort comes in.
In case you had no idea before, gay men can be divided neatly and without much of a whimper, into 'sorts'. As the gay interior designer/ decorator explains, he looks at the entire exercise as a folder, with its own little partitions, A-Z, which have little leaflets bearing the biodata of several personable and not-so-personable young and old men. So when he feels like he's in the mood, he flips the folder over to type 'A' and dials a man. Simple and sweet.
What are the types, then? Well, the porn sites online delineate gay men according to body type. So, we have a) the bears, big and swarthy, with oodles of body hair, b) the twinks, fresh and bratty and below 19 years of age, c) the hunks, who're between 20 and 35 years old, call the gym their second home, and don't have too much body hair, d) the matures, who're the oldies above 40 years, and so on and so forth. There are also several subcategories here, for example, the bearcubs, who're not so hairy and not chubby at all and quite young, and the cute guys, who're in the same age group as the hunks, though they may not have the rugged muscles, and they make up for that lack with a certain twinkle in their eyes or their smiles. For the thinking man alone, beware.
;-)
And then, there are the other types, that personable young gay men like d/d and I decide upon, over a glass of chilled white wine and a story about an ex. There's the penguin, who's the very nice young guy but who fcuks your love life completely because he's not in the same emotional space that you are, and it's so much more fun to blame the other guy than it is to blame yourself. There's also the cute, but unattractive tag that fits some guys - the classic guy who's perfect for a relationship, has excellent taste, but you're simply not sexually attracted to him. There's the underage kid, who's really not that underage at 21-22, but then you hate the idea of being in a relationship with someone who's always going to be the 'younger one' and for whom you'll have to be the 'mature guy', so that there's no hope in hell that there'll be anyone to handle your tantrums when they come. There's the other twenty-one year old skanks, whom you despise, because they get all the attention at every damn gay gathering, just because they're twenty-one and you're twenty-four, though they're more or less on the same cuteness scale as you.
And a million others.
So that, when you get asked that question, What's your type?, you have a vast array of answers to choose from. And yet, I wonder if it's ever possible to choose. I never can, actually.
Take me for instance. I would probably fit the bill as the cute guy between 20 and 30 years old, who can also be a sort of bear cub. But what's my type? Tough question. The guys I've dated have been all sorts, really. Bearcub, muscle-hunk, penguin, cute but unattractive, underage kid, yadayadayada. So, very often, the Great Folder Theory just comes a cropper.
But the importance of classification is very often not for rigid swearing-by. That's never the case, even in science, the motherlode of classification theory. You need the theory as a sort of yardstick, and sometimes, for nothing but to measure how you've changed. Types are not meant to remain as the be-all and the end-all, as in I slept with a bearcub when I was eighteen, so that means I'm always attracted to bears, but rather to see how you make that progression from a bear to a penguin.
In case I forgot to say so earlier, Welcome to the Zoo.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio
Time for Gloria Gaynor on the radio
I went on a date this evening. An utterly unexpected date, for which I had to be cajoled to go. I made the person I was going to meet think that I was this completely horrible person who judges people solely on the basis of their online picture profiles... which is not completely untrue, but then...!
And I actually had a great time. The person in question, whom I shall call GA because of his black Giorgio Armani tshirt, was funny, intelligent and quite attractive. We had the most mundane date ever - burgers at MacD's and then he smoked outside Barista's - but then, this wasn't really supposed to be a date in the first place. We just planned to 'meet up' - because, in spite of me acting like a first rate bitch online, GA came to my side of town all the way from the suburbs, even though he had to get back to Juhu by 10 pm for a night out with his pals. I was flattered, if nothing else. And that 'nothing else' quickly became a lot of 'elses' when, getting inside the cab that was to take him back to Juhu, GA leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I stood there, quite stunned to respond, because for all I knew, a million and a half people on the street had seen that brief kiss. Whoa!
Of course, on the way back home, I've promised myself that I'm not going to make mountains out of molehills. I'm not going to imagine a big and bright future with GA after just one great date. That's the easiest way to go downhill from here. I'm going to say to myself, Well, CT, that was a great date, and it remains to be seen what else is there to follow... but that's it. Nothing more.
But that's the crux. That's the crux. Sometimes... things happen. Things happen when you least expect them to. Nice things. The other night, I was having a conversation with a friend who lives across the border, and he was in a deep funk over another conversation he'd had earlier with a common friend. My across-the-border friend, ATB, recently moved out to his own place, and since he hates eating alone, he has this very real psychological problem facing him at mealtimes... and then the mutual friend screws it further by telling him: Hullo! You're gay, so chances are that you'll never find anyone to share the rest of your life with, so you better get used to eating meals alone! Wowch. That hurts.
But that's a truth most gay men have actually taught themselves to deal with. We may not force ourselves to face that truth every day, but we have our own way of dealing with that. Gay men have an excellent friend support system. Gay men are extreme optimists. We party. Hard. And then harder. Yet sometimes, the chink in the armour shows, as it did with ATB, and then you wonder: FCUK! How am I going to end up?!
I don't have an answer to that. I really don't. I didn't have one for ATB the other night when we were chatting, other than to tell him, that that kind of shit might even face him if he were straight. Who you end up with depends on the kind of person you are, and your luck in finding that person, and not so much on your sexual orientation. That's the eternal optimist in me talking. In the meantime, you depend on your friends, knowing that the really genuine ones will not desert you in your hour of need, no matter what familial commitments they may have.
And then of course, there are those little incidents, like an ordinary coffee meeting turning into a very delightful first date, that reinforce the optimism in you...
That reinforce the optimism in me. ;-)
I went on a date this evening. An utterly unexpected date, for which I had to be cajoled to go. I made the person I was going to meet think that I was this completely horrible person who judges people solely on the basis of their online picture profiles... which is not completely untrue, but then...!
And I actually had a great time. The person in question, whom I shall call GA because of his black Giorgio Armani tshirt, was funny, intelligent and quite attractive. We had the most mundane date ever - burgers at MacD's and then he smoked outside Barista's - but then, this wasn't really supposed to be a date in the first place. We just planned to 'meet up' - because, in spite of me acting like a first rate bitch online, GA came to my side of town all the way from the suburbs, even though he had to get back to Juhu by 10 pm for a night out with his pals. I was flattered, if nothing else. And that 'nothing else' quickly became a lot of 'elses' when, getting inside the cab that was to take him back to Juhu, GA leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. I stood there, quite stunned to respond, because for all I knew, a million and a half people on the street had seen that brief kiss. Whoa!
Of course, on the way back home, I've promised myself that I'm not going to make mountains out of molehills. I'm not going to imagine a big and bright future with GA after just one great date. That's the easiest way to go downhill from here. I'm going to say to myself, Well, CT, that was a great date, and it remains to be seen what else is there to follow... but that's it. Nothing more.
But that's the crux. That's the crux. Sometimes... things happen. Things happen when you least expect them to. Nice things. The other night, I was having a conversation with a friend who lives across the border, and he was in a deep funk over another conversation he'd had earlier with a common friend. My across-the-border friend, ATB, recently moved out to his own place, and since he hates eating alone, he has this very real psychological problem facing him at mealtimes... and then the mutual friend screws it further by telling him: Hullo! You're gay, so chances are that you'll never find anyone to share the rest of your life with, so you better get used to eating meals alone! Wowch. That hurts.
But that's a truth most gay men have actually taught themselves to deal with. We may not force ourselves to face that truth every day, but we have our own way of dealing with that. Gay men have an excellent friend support system. Gay men are extreme optimists. We party. Hard. And then harder. Yet sometimes, the chink in the armour shows, as it did with ATB, and then you wonder: FCUK! How am I going to end up?!
I don't have an answer to that. I really don't. I didn't have one for ATB the other night when we were chatting, other than to tell him, that that kind of shit might even face him if he were straight. Who you end up with depends on the kind of person you are, and your luck in finding that person, and not so much on your sexual orientation. That's the eternal optimist in me talking. In the meantime, you depend on your friends, knowing that the really genuine ones will not desert you in your hour of need, no matter what familial commitments they may have.
And then of course, there are those little incidents, like an ordinary coffee meeting turning into a very delightful first date, that reinforce the optimism in you...
That reinforce the optimism in me. ;-)
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Server problems
Server problems
I'm so completely stumped. Even as I write this, Gay.com refuses to open, owing to some server problems or whatnot, and my only method of meeting new people in the gay world is dead. True, I don't really get to meet new people as such, since they're mostly the same old fags from Bombay, Dilli and phoren, but you do get my point, I hope. And it's quite silly, but true, that though I may bitch about how shallow chatroom lingo is, it's role has gradually expanded in my life, to the point that it is my only window of ever finding a guy these days.
Bah!
The other night, while I was online, a 32 year old Gujarati man (his nick was *something*shah) comes up and asks me "asl?", to which I reply, "Sorry, I'm not looking for sex right now." Now, the bugger gets offended apparently, and retorts, "You think too much dude - who said I was looking for sex with you?" And of course, that gets my hackles up, and I flare back, "Listen, dude, your line sounds like it belongs in a meat market! If you wanted something other than to beat your miniscule cock, you'd come up with a cleverer line or even (god forbid!) a simple "hi-hello"! So go sell your beef elsewhere, cuz I'm not interested!" I'm usually polite with strangers, but some of them can really... well... get to ya!
But the sad and strange part is, that's the only mechanism I'm used to nowadays for meeting new people. I dance like a dervish at GB parties, and maybe that's why nobody ever approaches me there. I socialise sometimes with my friends' gay friends, but as far as I know, no one has ever evinced any interest in me thereby, either. I gave up walking round and round in circles in the city's so-called gay haunts ages ago, and have no desire to resume that again. So, sadly enough... gay.com is IT! My passport to a happy love life.
Ouch.
I'm so completely stumped. Even as I write this, Gay.com refuses to open, owing to some server problems or whatnot, and my only method of meeting new people in the gay world is dead. True, I don't really get to meet new people as such, since they're mostly the same old fags from Bombay, Dilli and phoren, but you do get my point, I hope. And it's quite silly, but true, that though I may bitch about how shallow chatroom lingo is, it's role has gradually expanded in my life, to the point that it is my only window of ever finding a guy these days.
Bah!
The other night, while I was online, a 32 year old Gujarati man (his nick was *something*shah) comes up and asks me "asl?", to which I reply, "Sorry, I'm not looking for sex right now." Now, the bugger gets offended apparently, and retorts, "You think too much dude - who said I was looking for sex with you?" And of course, that gets my hackles up, and I flare back, "Listen, dude, your line sounds like it belongs in a meat market! If you wanted something other than to beat your miniscule cock, you'd come up with a cleverer line or even (god forbid!) a simple "hi-hello"! So go sell your beef elsewhere, cuz I'm not interested!" I'm usually polite with strangers, but some of them can really... well... get to ya!
But the sad and strange part is, that's the only mechanism I'm used to nowadays for meeting new people. I dance like a dervish at GB parties, and maybe that's why nobody ever approaches me there. I socialise sometimes with my friends' gay friends, but as far as I know, no one has ever evinced any interest in me thereby, either. I gave up walking round and round in circles in the city's so-called gay haunts ages ago, and have no desire to resume that again. So, sadly enough... gay.com is IT! My passport to a happy love life.
Ouch.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Room Service at Suite 101
Room Service at Suite 101
Perhaps this is the season of hearts trying to get back on their feet. The quiet period where you tend to step back for a few seconds and try to get over that guy back there who left you feeling somehow incomplete even though you've got everything you started out with, and probably coupla tools more.
And even though I'm no kind of a feminist, I would grumble and mutter under my breath, Men!
The other day, someone who'd seen my online profile messaged me the succinct sentence: 'u r cute', followed by his cell phone number. Well, since I'm shallow like hell, I checked out his online profile, and deciding that he was kinda cute as well, messaged him back. And this evening, we chatted on the phone. And he asks me out to Voodoo's.
Ouch. For the uninitiated, Voodoo's is the original Gay Bar of Bombay. Settled bang on Colaba Causeway, the place is seedy at all times and converts into a gay bar on Saturday nights. The place charges Rs 300 entry fee (non-refundable, might I add), and is populated mainly by old uncles and hookers of every kind (straight woman, lesbian woman, gay man, tranny whatever) all boogeying on the dance floor. In a word, Voodoo's is an institution and deserves a whole post dedicated solely to it, but I'm not going there now.
The point I was trying to make: I asked him why Voodoo's of all places, and he replied, he wants to dance with men but there was someone at the GB party being held tonight, whom he doesn't want to meet and is trying to get over. Heartbreak hotel. I listened politely, said I was very sorry for him, but had decided on a month-long sabbatical from GB parties and was certainly not going to Voodoo's on a Saturday when a GB party was on (that would mean, Voodoo's would have the lowest low lives), and came back home to read a book. Harry Potter, if you're interested.
So, it was heartbreak hotel there. Same address, the other night, on my kind-of date with Graphics Designer. Hell, d/d has been in heartbreak hotel for more than three months now, and truth be told, I've taken up permanent residence there myself.
There's a difference, though, in the way gay men nurse their broken hearts. We don't go about everyday sullen faced like women, but actually party, have fun, go about our jobs with aplomb, though we have the occassional whiney telephone conversation with the best friend... But what we do is this: date with fervour. Sorry, wrong to use the word 'date'. I meant: see people. Meet them for coffee. Meet them for a screw. Love to identify several young men as the promising somethings. And then we make excuses to keep them at arms' length thereafter, making the "it's too soon" excuse.
You can catch me at Suite 101, in case you're interested.
***
On a side note, the other night, d/d and I bumped into a couple of cute guys who apparently read Talking Closets. I'm an egoistic asshole enough to admit that being appreciated feels GREAT. It felt good to know that these guys read my blog and actually like what they read... most of the time. But while it's wonderful to have fame spread, it also restricts the power of being anonymous. I'm going to have to be slightly careful when I go bitchy ballistic, and I don't want that. So, you gorgeous guys with whom I had beer the other night, I hope you keep CloseTalk's Secret Identity with yourselves.
And being the typical egoistic asshole like I said I was, I'm going to blow my kisses at you, and say you're always welcome to come back for more.
;-)
Perhaps this is the season of hearts trying to get back on their feet. The quiet period where you tend to step back for a few seconds and try to get over that guy back there who left you feeling somehow incomplete even though you've got everything you started out with, and probably coupla tools more.
And even though I'm no kind of a feminist, I would grumble and mutter under my breath, Men!
The other day, someone who'd seen my online profile messaged me the succinct sentence: 'u r cute', followed by his cell phone number. Well, since I'm shallow like hell, I checked out his online profile, and deciding that he was kinda cute as well, messaged him back. And this evening, we chatted on the phone. And he asks me out to Voodoo's.
Ouch. For the uninitiated, Voodoo's is the original Gay Bar of Bombay. Settled bang on Colaba Causeway, the place is seedy at all times and converts into a gay bar on Saturday nights. The place charges Rs 300 entry fee (non-refundable, might I add), and is populated mainly by old uncles and hookers of every kind (straight woman, lesbian woman, gay man, tranny whatever) all boogeying on the dance floor. In a word, Voodoo's is an institution and deserves a whole post dedicated solely to it, but I'm not going there now.
The point I was trying to make: I asked him why Voodoo's of all places, and he replied, he wants to dance with men but there was someone at the GB party being held tonight, whom he doesn't want to meet and is trying to get over. Heartbreak hotel. I listened politely, said I was very sorry for him, but had decided on a month-long sabbatical from GB parties and was certainly not going to Voodoo's on a Saturday when a GB party was on (that would mean, Voodoo's would have the lowest low lives), and came back home to read a book. Harry Potter, if you're interested.
So, it was heartbreak hotel there. Same address, the other night, on my kind-of date with Graphics Designer. Hell, d/d has been in heartbreak hotel for more than three months now, and truth be told, I've taken up permanent residence there myself.
There's a difference, though, in the way gay men nurse their broken hearts. We don't go about everyday sullen faced like women, but actually party, have fun, go about our jobs with aplomb, though we have the occassional whiney telephone conversation with the best friend... But what we do is this: date with fervour. Sorry, wrong to use the word 'date'. I meant: see people. Meet them for coffee. Meet them for a screw. Love to identify several young men as the promising somethings. And then we make excuses to keep them at arms' length thereafter, making the "it's too soon" excuse.
You can catch me at Suite 101, in case you're interested.
***
On a side note, the other night, d/d and I bumped into a couple of cute guys who apparently read Talking Closets. I'm an egoistic asshole enough to admit that being appreciated feels GREAT. It felt good to know that these guys read my blog and actually like what they read... most of the time. But while it's wonderful to have fame spread, it also restricts the power of being anonymous. I'm going to have to be slightly careful when I go bitchy ballistic, and I don't want that. So, you gorgeous guys with whom I had beer the other night, I hope you keep CloseTalk's Secret Identity with yourselves.
And being the typical egoistic asshole like I said I was, I'm going to blow my kisses at you, and say you're always welcome to come back for more.
;-)
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Wine and dates
Wine and dates
Lunching with gay young interior designer/decorator today, and I asked him whether it's true that gay men are never meant to find permanent love. D/d chomped on his spicy surmai pulliguti (green curry with chillis and amazing sauce) and bombil fry, and mouthed out, "Yes, because we're supposed to be pretty and have pleasure."
CT: "You mean, we're like Bacchus?"
D/d, chomp chomp: "Exactly."
D/d, sipping solkadi: "It's all the free sex that we get. The easy sex."
CT, licking lips after a bite of the banana split: "So, straight people would also be in hell, if they got easy sex like us?
D/d, slicing the sizzling brownie on his plate: "Exactly. If they were as decadent as us."
Pleasure creatures. I thought about that definition again this evening on my not-really date with Graphics Designer. I've had this attraction towards GD for a long time, but that never went anywhere because GD had this strong crush of his own on a friend of his and finally summoned up the courage to tell him, but only got rejected in the end. He's trying to get over him now, is not sure though if he really wants to get over him, and is basically in the same sort of state I was, after Nature Boy and I split.
So he asks me how I got over Nature Boy, and I replied, "Well, I refused to meet him for nearly two months. I shut him out completely from my life. And met him again only after things got better. But I'm not sure that's the way for you."
GD: "I know. Because he's part of my close friend circle now."
CT: "But he's being an ass, and you shouldn't run after him at all now."
GD: "I'm not going to."
GD, after dinner: "Is this a date?"
CT: "I'm not sure."
GD: "A date doesn't have to be non-platonic. That's called dating, na?"
CT: "A date is always about more than platonic feelings. Your descriptions are wrong, dude. It's dating when it's frequent. This is not a date,... I think."
GD, after a pause: "He gets a lot of sex, you know. Awful." And that's when I repeat the earlier conversation about decadence, over bombil fry, surmai pulliguti, banana split and sizzling brownie, to him.
GD says "Hmmmmmmmmm...", while eating whiskey sodden brownie with me.
After putting me in the cab, he reaches out and says, "Hope to do this again sometime soon, you know. One-on-one. Another date."
And now, I'm left even more confused.
Lunching with gay young interior designer/decorator today, and I asked him whether it's true that gay men are never meant to find permanent love. D/d chomped on his spicy surmai pulliguti (green curry with chillis and amazing sauce) and bombil fry, and mouthed out, "Yes, because we're supposed to be pretty and have pleasure."
CT: "You mean, we're like Bacchus?"
D/d, chomp chomp: "Exactly."
D/d, sipping solkadi: "It's all the free sex that we get. The easy sex."
CT, licking lips after a bite of the banana split: "So, straight people would also be in hell, if they got easy sex like us?
D/d, slicing the sizzling brownie on his plate: "Exactly. If they were as decadent as us."
Pleasure creatures. I thought about that definition again this evening on my not-really date with Graphics Designer. I've had this attraction towards GD for a long time, but that never went anywhere because GD had this strong crush of his own on a friend of his and finally summoned up the courage to tell him, but only got rejected in the end. He's trying to get over him now, is not sure though if he really wants to get over him, and is basically in the same sort of state I was, after Nature Boy and I split.
So he asks me how I got over Nature Boy, and I replied, "Well, I refused to meet him for nearly two months. I shut him out completely from my life. And met him again only after things got better. But I'm not sure that's the way for you."
GD: "I know. Because he's part of my close friend circle now."
CT: "But he's being an ass, and you shouldn't run after him at all now."
GD: "I'm not going to."
GD, after dinner: "Is this a date?"
CT: "I'm not sure."
GD: "A date doesn't have to be non-platonic. That's called dating, na?"
CT: "A date is always about more than platonic feelings. Your descriptions are wrong, dude. It's dating when it's frequent. This is not a date,... I think."
GD, after a pause: "He gets a lot of sex, you know. Awful." And that's when I repeat the earlier conversation about decadence, over bombil fry, surmai pulliguti, banana split and sizzling brownie, to him.
GD says "Hmmmmmmmmm...", while eating whiskey sodden brownie with me.
After putting me in the cab, he reaches out and says, "Hope to do this again sometime soon, you know. One-on-one. Another date."
And now, I'm left even more confused.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
The story about beer and caffeine
The story about beer and caffeine
Coffee with the Nutcracker is always an amusing episode. I suppose you could call the Nutcracker my original fag-hag, but she's so much more than that. She's the one who pledged to take care of me when I'm old and decrepit without a mate and probably dying of some debilitating disease. And she has a wicked sense of humour. And a lovely ego like mine.
We compliment each other perfectly.
Nutcracker: So, InsipidWoman is probably sleeping with the xerox guy.
CT, scalding tongue on hot coffee: YOWCH!
Nutcracker, sighing: Funny, na? I thought so too.
CT: So what's the latest on your cyber romance case?
Nutcracker: Bored. What about your one?
CT: Turned out to be fat and forty with a bent for the S&Ms.
Nutcracker: I prefer the M&Ms. (giggle)
CT: So do I.
CT: You wanna dance somewhere?
Nutcracker: I wanna get drunk.
So, there we go to Ghettoes, sitting in a space near the pool table, downing a pitcher of chilled beer, and unwittingly become drawn into the conversation of the big gaggle of dumbasses next to us. They're pretty dumbasses, so it's actually much worse.
Dumbass 1: Meet, Rahul... he's my sweeeeetttoooo!
Dumbass 2: Ooooooo, hiiiiiii!!
Dumbass 3, who's also Rahul: I want vodka. Anyone want vodka?
Dumbass 4: I need to go the loo. Sooooooooo bad.
Dumbass 1: I loooooooove your shirt, Rahul.
Dumbass 3: Vodka? Gin? Rum? Beer? WHHHHHAAAATTT???
Dumbass 2: O, the bartender's soooooooo hot! So, what are you doing later tonight, Rahul?
Dumbass 4: Will anyone else come with me to the loo?
CT and Nutcracker: (snigger!)
Coffee with the Nutcracker is always an amusing episode. I suppose you could call the Nutcracker my original fag-hag, but she's so much more than that. She's the one who pledged to take care of me when I'm old and decrepit without a mate and probably dying of some debilitating disease. And she has a wicked sense of humour. And a lovely ego like mine.
We compliment each other perfectly.
Nutcracker: So, InsipidWoman is probably sleeping with the xerox guy.
CT, scalding tongue on hot coffee: YOWCH!
Nutcracker, sighing: Funny, na? I thought so too.
CT: So what's the latest on your cyber romance case?
Nutcracker: Bored. What about your one?
CT: Turned out to be fat and forty with a bent for the S&Ms.
Nutcracker: I prefer the M&Ms. (giggle)
CT: So do I.
CT: You wanna dance somewhere?
Nutcracker: I wanna get drunk.
So, there we go to Ghettoes, sitting in a space near the pool table, downing a pitcher of chilled beer, and unwittingly become drawn into the conversation of the big gaggle of dumbasses next to us. They're pretty dumbasses, so it's actually much worse.
Dumbass 1: Meet, Rahul... he's my sweeeeetttoooo!
Dumbass 2: Ooooooo, hiiiiiii!!
Dumbass 3, who's also Rahul: I want vodka. Anyone want vodka?
Dumbass 4: I need to go the loo. Sooooooooo bad.
Dumbass 1: I loooooooove your shirt, Rahul.
Dumbass 3: Vodka? Gin? Rum? Beer? WHHHHHAAAATTT???
Dumbass 2: O, the bartender's soooooooo hot! So, what are you doing later tonight, Rahul?
Dumbass 4: Will anyone else come with me to the loo?
CT and Nutcracker: (snigger!)
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Googly in the Over
Googly in the Over
Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.
Last night, we went to Under the Over.
And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.
As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.
"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.
"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."
I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.
Went out for dinner last night with Travel Agent, who's an old friend of mine hailing from that outlandish part of town called Colaba. Travel Agent and I used to date, ages back when I first came to Bombay, but then , after I started seeing my first ex, we sort of settled into comfortable 'friend' mode. And now, we have a very funny relationship - we make plans to meet, but invariably meet after a gap of a month or so, have dinner at a fancy place, pledge to meet up soon, but only do so a month later.
Last night, we went to Under the Over.
And on the way back, we met up with a friend of his, whom I see regularly on the gay.com chatroom. It's actually quite scary that I'm such a frequent visitor there that I recognize people by their chat ids, but let's not go down that road for now... Breach Candy Regular, BCR, is getting married next month, and should be on his honeymoon by the first week of January. Strange, considering that he's all of 22 years, and the entire time last night in Travel Agent's car was spent reminescencing about the 'jolly gay times' the two of them had shared.
As we left BCR, Travel Agent explained to me how strongly familial pressure works in Gujarati families like his. It's expected that you get married, and fast, and no excuse is just ever good enough - not the "I want to settle first", or "I want to earn more money first", and definitely not "I'm gay, you see, folks". So the BCRs of Bombay, even from the time they hit the gay scene, are all very clear in their heads: I'm gay, but I'm going to get married soon, so everyone else better be clear with that. I found it even stranger that BCR and Travel Agent had once been so close that BCR had asked for a relationship.
"A relationship? When he knew he's going to get married, and he's not even going to put up a token resistance?" I asked Travel Agent, who laughed, as he coursed the car along the road.
"You don't know how it works there," he replied, "They have it down all pat."
I suppose I'm the only one who hasn't.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Old is gold... but we demand platinium!
Old is gold... but we demand platinium!
What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...
And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.
Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:
a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.
The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!
This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.
So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.
And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.
What is it about being gay in Bombay that makes you feel old? Even as I type these words, I realize that I'm not being completely honest. I've seen young people. I've seen young people act old, and older people act young. There's The Mythologist who loves throwing parties at his home, frequented by good-looking young men, while he remains devoted to his love interest overseas - he's one of the most gregarious gay people I've met in Bombay, one of the most generous and the nicest. I've also seen Aged Director, who loves to spend time alone in his flat in Bandra and doesn't socialise much, has no love interest overseas or onshore to speak of, but is still immensely satisfied with himself and the herbal cream that makes him look 35 despite his 55 years of age. So, yes, there are people...
And there are people!... People like me at the GB party last Saturday, dancing like a wild dervish, when suddenly I stop and stare. I'm out of breath, I'm just under three drinks (diluted - GB is not known for spiking its drinks), and I have the saddest feeling of deja vu. Been there, done that - true, I have, but what's so effing different this time, I wondered. I've known for ages that GB is not really the most fashionable place in town, with the best crowd anywhere - I've known that for ages. I go to GB parties to party and preen and generally giggle like a gay boy. Crystal clear priorities.
Hell, maybe I'm just growing old. I looked around me Saturday, while leaning against a wall, and decided that all the people on the floor could be fitted into either of three categories:
a) Trashy
b) Snotty
c) Been there, done them.
The evening before the party, Insane Bitch asked me in an sms whether I had still not got bored of the same old rigmarole at GB parties, and I replied indignantly to the negative. I like being the butterfly that evening, once in a fortnight. And that spell of boredom Saturday night makes me wonder now if a butterfly ever gets bored of being one. All wings and colour - damn, now what do I do next? Become a dull caterpillar? So out of the question!
This is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. I know myself too well to realize that that's quite unlikely, in the absence of a regular boyfriend to give me my bi-or-tri-weekly dose of that ridiculously sexy thing called sex, - so no, this is not a post about hanging up the stillettoes again. This is a post about a moment of strange melancholy - one of the moments that symbolise the screws in the apple that used to be the watermark of this blog earlier. Every gay man goes through these moments, decides to deal with them in some such way, and then... moves on.
So I'm not going for the next two GB parties. I'll stay at home, or I shall go out for a movie or a dinner or to a straight disc.
And then, I shall... move on. C'est la vie.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Under the hammer!
Under the hammer!
Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!
***
The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.
I earn a pittance.
I don't save anything.
My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.
My parents will soon die.
I may soon die.
Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.
A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.
Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.
My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.
Your favourite closet has gone 'public' in every sense of the term - shares of the blog are listed on Blogshares, and you can buy your very own part of it. This bull run is sizzling, people!
***
The other day, a bitch came to my house. An insurance bitch. A sweet tall Parsi woman by the name of Phirozi, who came to collect the cheque from my flatmate for her policy. And then, when she heard that I don't have life insurance taken out on my own, she proceeded to try and brainwash me.
I earn a pittance.
I don't save anything.
My mutual fund investments will not be there when I need them.
My parents will soon die.
I may soon die.
Of some long, horrible disease that will be expensive.
A bus, an airplane, a train, a bird are all conspiring to kill me even as I write this.
Insurance with equity plans are loads better for my feeble brain to understand, rather than my mutual funds.
My future family (wife, three kids, dog) will be left poverty-stricken after I die.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Material Men
Material Men
The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.
In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...
It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?
;-)
They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...
To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...
The return of the icon, is how Madonna would like to put it. She's back in a brand new flava, and the press loves it. And you have to admit, she looks faaabulous, dah-lings. The music's pretty snappy too. Thanks to Nature Boy, I can attest to that.
In a recent interview, Madonna hopes she's still numero uno in the list of gay icons of the world. Apparently, Kylie has in an earlier statement said that, while she may be the princess, the Original Material Girl is still the biggest Queen Bee around. Compliments galore for her confessions on the dance floor...
It's very strange, though, don't you think? That a gay man's icon would be a straight woman? Straight women? Judy Garland, Cher, Gloria Gaynor, Madonna, Kylie, Beyonce.... what is it about super-sexy (alright, not Garland or Gaynor!) women that makes gay men across the world think of them as... icons? I mean, I think George Michael is H-O-T - always was, and is still! I even go for the skinhead look of Right Said Fred. But how come the Pet Shop Boys never made it to Gay Icon status? How come that recent Russian boy duo, whose name I just can't recall, never made it to the drool-list of gay men worldwide?
;-)
They say, it's about the image. They say it's about being flouncy. The abandon. You feel the abandon when Cyndi Lauper hollers that Girls just wanna have fun, not when she says that Time after time things don't go well for her. You identify with Material girl because deep down you like the bling-bling, you can't wait to Strike a pose on the dance floor, would love to be caught in a picture reading Vogue, feel sentimental when you remember what it was to be Like a virgin, but you don't really give a fig about crying for Argentina. And, yes, you have sooooo many Confessions of the dance floor, that it's not very funny at all...
To each his own. Despite this long-winded speech, I must admit, I've been a die-hard fan of Madonna since I was twelve years old. I guess that answers my question about whether you're born or made gay...
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
First in line
First in line
Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?
The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.
;-)
I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.
It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.
And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.
And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.
Remember that old question about whether you're born gay or whether you're made so? That question which every gay man and woman has probably asked him or herself at some point of life. I did too. Not whether I was ever induced to have sex with a man, but whether my continuously having sex with men automatically meant that sleeping with a woman wasn't half as fun. That's the old gay vs bi and bi vs straight and gay vs straight question. Why am I gay?
The first time I had sex, I knew I was going to have fun. I had not planned the occassion, and like most people, my first time came completely out of the blue. But I guess I was prepared for it. I 'rose' to the occassion, pun intended, and satisfied most of the kinky thoughts and desires that had existed in my closet. No one forced me to have sex with them - they offered me sex, and I took it, because I was curious and well... horny.
;-)
I actually had sex with a woman after that. I kept on telling myself that maybe I was just bisexual... this was alright, even normal, that I lusted after men, and I tried to force myself to lust after women too. But Baywatch left me cold. Pamela was slutty, but I liked the guy she was french kissing on the beach, and it was his speedos I was thinking of, rather than hers. It was clear that this line was not going to work.
It took a brief affair with a close female friend to make me realise that I was gay. Not bisexual. And certainly not straight. I'm not attracted to women at all. My flatmate says, she's more comfortable around me, a gay man, than she could ever be around either a straight guy or a straight woman. I still don't know what to make of that.
And then there are the stories from other people around me. The stories about classmates who've later 'turned' straight. Next door neighbours who raped them when they were younger. Experiments with cousins in the dead of night. Whispers and threats and loves and persuasions. No single first experience is ever the same, though you may be tempted to classify them under Schoolboy Sex or Neighbourly Nudge or whatever. When I first started having sex, I kept on asking them about their first experiences. I found it turned me on, to some extent. Or it horrified me, which in turn helped me feel tender towards them and infuse some real passion in the sex that followed. I'm not sure who it helped more: me or them.
And it never answered my question of whether we're made gay or whether we're born this way.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
You can ring my bell!
You can ring my bell!
The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.
;-)
Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.
So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?
Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.
Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe
Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.
But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.
The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.
The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.
Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.
Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!
Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!
The party was good. I may be biased since I'm the one who hosted it, but the rest of you will all be ungrateful SOBs if you say you didn't have fun.
;-)
Gay interior designer/ decorator was tickled pink at the idea of the gay bloggers' party and came two hours early to play dress-up. Of course, me being the Desperate Housewife that I am, I was knee-deep in last-minute chores like getting the cold drinks (which turned out to be lukewarm, seeing that I don't own a fridge) and rearranging the mats in my room, and hanging the sketches on the wall and what-not. My look for the day was decidedly Filthy Bear: an exotic species in itself, wearing tight tshirt and faded jeans, stubble on face, and iPOD on hip, as I dashed across the neighbourhood, with a decided smell of mansweat. I still didn't hook any ghaati boys in the neighbourhood, though. Expected.
So, finally, we did play dress-up. I played Bombay Whore. Which involved a full-sleeve diagonal striped shirt, sleeves rolled up to half-length, only one button just above the belly, and tucked in imperfectly to show a glimpse of tummy, teamed with stonewashed jeans and a red cloth belt, and white 'low' undies on top of the jeans. And, in case you missed the point, I had a name tag titled S.L.U.T. aka CloseTalk slung around my neck. Ding-dong, do I hear the door bell ring?
Meanwhile, d/d was the French caddy slut for the night - small white tshirt, tiny black shorts that gave everyone around a great look-see of his jewels whenever he parted his legs, and my fake leather beret on his head.
Natureboy was wearing a white tshirt which proclaimed SHOWOFF!!! in bold red, together with white shorts. French beard optional. Emily came in a red kurta and folded-up jeans, accessorised with two jewelled belts bought from some disreputable pimp's showroom in Colaba, a very cute anklet and a pink Minnie Mouse hairband. Hehehe
Apple-boy came dressed all formal, teamed up with a fluorescent orange tie around his neck. Lovely trousers. He brought with him Gup Shup, who went all American boy chic, with his uber-tight tshirt screaming SELF MADE MAN. I should have had hookers for the party - sigh.
But then, we did have French caddy slut, aka d/d.
The late-comers were Funny Parsi Guy, who dropped in on his way to another friends' birthday party, and Visualscribe who had everyone in the room (with the exception of FPG) lusting after his gold sequined mojris.
The cold-drink lady sniggered when I opened the door to get the bottles, in my over-under-wear, and I'm hoping I won't be evicted from my building. My flatmate of course had a blast seeing so many exubert fags going all tipsy.
Wine, black rum, Bacardi, Alcazar, paapris with tartar sauce, paani puris. Gloria Gaynor, and we discussed Nazia Hassan's Disco Deewaane. Bappi-da was mentioned, as we preferred the Hindi version of D-I-S-C-O to the English one, or at least, Vik did. There was general lamentation about not having New Meat at the party, but I really didn't want to hold a GB party II.
Played Kajra re, and d/d promised to do a mujra at the next party if I can get Kua mein dub jaoogi. But the actual performance came much later, when most of the guys had gone - Emily and d/d threw one of my flattie's green dupattas between them, and did the most awe-inspiring dhak-dhak moves to Madhuri's Maar daalaa!
Moral of the story: Cyndi Lauper knows what she's talking about when she says that Girls just wanna have fun!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
POP!
POP!
Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.
The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.
Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?
My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?
Sigh.
I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.
But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.
But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?
Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...
And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.
Ok, so I uncorked the bubbly again.
The gay slut has returned to his haunts. And no, before anyone starts tut-tuting and saying 'I told him so' lines, while I take my stillettoes out again from behind the closet, I just want to reiterate that I never said earlier I'd abstain completely from sex. Random sex was what I meant. However, as it turns out, I could find enough loopholes around this one.
Random sex means a phone call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet and screw?
My brand of non-slut sex was a phone-call: Hey babe, am in your part of town, shall we meet, have the cuppa coffee for propriety's sake and then go for a bang at your place?
Sigh.
I could get away with this line, of course, but then some sort of reality dawns in my pretty little head, and I decide that one type of slut is as good as (or, as bad as) any other. No use pretending to be something I'm not. So I might as well just slip the stillettoes back on.
But I'm a Desperate Housewife, really. Finally met up with Beret Boy the other night, had the rudimentary coffee and conversation, and convinced him to come back home with me. Lovely boy, good sex, but all my hopes (and giggles) of the earlier post for a possible relationship are down the drain, of course - 22 year old boy who's just new on the gay scene and wants to fuck around, and I'm not in the mood for babysitting.
But here's the crunch: Guess what I do, after he leaves, and I proclaim two hours well spent to my flatmate?
Promptly take a broom and start sweeping the floor of my room. Sigh. Beret Boy is quite, quite hairy, you see, and seeing hair follicles strewn on the ground gives me the Monica itch. So, while I swept the floor, I even muttered to myself, Nice boy, but next time I get a tarpauline on the floor for you...
And the Slut Saga continues... I'm still waiting for that Sp[ecial Someone, however. Bated breath and all.
Monday, November 07, 2005
OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday
OK, the gay blogger party is ON this Saturday
I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.
The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.
Over the top.
You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.
Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)
As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!
I'll try to send all the guys invited their individual invites before then, but this post serves as one big general invite as well. November 12, come 8.30 pm, all you gay divas are going to assemble in my lil pad for some funky dancing.
The theme for the night is Gay Diva Slut.
Over the top.
You're supposed to define 'over the top' with this one. So get out the spandex, the tight sleeveless muscle Ts, the floral printed frilly shirts, the hot pants, the vinyl paddings, the torn jeans, the crosses around your necks, the beads and the bracelets, the strap-ons, the cloth belts, the hip huggers, and hell, even the make-up, if you're so inclined.
Let's see just how 'funky town' us prolific gay Bombay bloggers can get. ;-)
As for the ladies (the real ones), I know y'll really wanna come, but I think the other ladies in the house will die of embarassment if anyone other than Family sees them!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Just a little (?) crush
Just a little (?) crush
The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:
ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?
CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?
ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?
CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?
ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.
(He hates the book.)
To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.
So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.
Sigh.
I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.
Now, why on earth would I do that?
The other day, I had an sms conversation with my Ex-Roomie, which went something like this:
ER: Hey, bitch. Having a good time? Still freeloading on brother?
CT: Hey, ass. Of course. Where do you think the good times come from? And you're still living off your sis in Delhi?
ER: Sure thing. How's the partying and the sleeping around?
CT: Partying like same, more or less. Trying to cut down on the sleeping around. Will try to have relationships now. Think I'm growing up?
ER: I'll believe that when I say Lord of the Rings is a masterpiece.
(He hates the book.)
To introduce ER, he was my first flatmate in Bombay, and I've known him for a year-and-a-half before that. He's this tall, fair, brawny Punju who looks so utterly cute when he sleeps, and of course I have the world's greatest crush on him. That's my concession to the norm of gay-men-falling-for-straight-men. I'm weak too. But it would have been the same for you, if you'd known him. I've had a crush on ER now, since the day I first met him, and it's been more than two years now. Almost three. My crush for him intensified, upon his reaction when I came out to him.
So what's this particular post about then? Am I merely reaffirming a silly little crush on an old friend? I'm not exactly sure, really. A lot of things are happening fast. First, there was the discussion a coupla months back, with two other friends I'm out to, who said, they got some vibes that ER may actually have been a confused gay boy as well. (He had women throwing themselves at him, but always kept himself away from them.) Then, there's the promise ER made, to come with me to Pegs N Pints, the gay bar in Delhi, when I arrive in his city. And, coming up in March, all of us are going to Bangalore for a mutual friend's wedding. ER will be there. We may have to share a room again. And I'm getting hopeful again.
Sigh.
I told a friend of mine the other day, that if I ever got ER, I'd probably turn a new leaf and become absolutely asexual towards other men. I have a strong desire to do that. I really do. Or maybe, I'm just telling myself that, in a silly effort to convince myself that this thing I have for ER goes beyond a crush and is all about... gulp... love.
Now, why on earth would I do that?
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Karaoke Queens
Karaoke Queens
First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.
I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...
That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.
Horrible drink.
D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.
;-)
And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...
By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.
First I was afraid,
I was petrified..
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...
But I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong,
And I grew strong...
I learned how to carry on.
I will survive.
As long as I know how to love I know I will stay alive.
I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give
And I'll survive.
I will survive...
That was one of the songs we were supposed to croon Monday night at Karaoke night at Jazz by the Bay. This, and Like a Virgin, Y-M-C-A and Dancing Queen. So, it was gay boys' night out, and CT, Gup Shup, gay interior decorator/designer and Penguin Boy decided to sing the town red. Jazz is a lovely place with a great crowd, and we were openly staring at all the lissome South Bombay boys. Most of them dressed and danced like gay boys, so we were aided in our fantasies that maybe, just maybe, the hot muscle boy in the khaki cap would be all too willing to make out in the car, or that the striped shirt angel would give an excellent blowjob in the squeaky-clean loo. I had a gin-and-tonic for the first time.
Horrible drink.
D/d paniced from Gloria Gaynor and Y-M-C-A, however, and the two of us ended up with a pretty tame version of Pretty Woman. We were bad. Bad. B-A-D. So bad, they took ages to get us on the damn stage for our little number. So bad, that the DJ's gal-friends came over and started singing with me and d/d... which sort of diverted the attention of the crowd away from the horrible singing and d/d's jerky dance steps.
;-)
And yesterday, I went out on a date with Funny Parsi Guy. Now, I've known FPG for ages, almost since I first stepped into Bombay, but I never actually thought about going out with him for a date. But we had a great time yesterday. Dinner and dessert and coffee and a walk down the beach front. Nice. He can't stand Parsi food, however. Being the pessimist I am, though, I'm just going to say it was nice, and let things unravel as they will, at their own pace...
By the way, am still waiting for the remaining confirmations for the Blog Party. Please hurry, guys.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Part-ay?
Part-ay?
Well, to everyone here: a happy Diwali.
And to a select few, by virtue of sex and location, (two outta three from ASL?!!), a special invite. Rather than an invite, a poll, actually:
This is going out to all you gay bloggers from Bombay. I'd like to have a little get together at my place sometime, and I wonder if you guys will come. For a couple of you, I haven't ever met you, but I'm pretty curious. Some of you do know me, on the other hand. I think it would be a fun time, over music, chatter and some great booze in the house, and I'd like to have a party!
(Strictly not the Delhi farmhouse kind!)
Planning for next Saturday, so please do holler and tell me if it's cool with ya guys. You can leave your response in the comments box here. I've also mailed you individual invites to your blogs, dudes.
And, just for clarification, the gay Bombay bloggers I'm familiar with are:
Amchi Mumbai
Vikster
Nature Boy
Lefty
The Gup Guy
Kris Engayged
Wassup, Doc?
Have I missed anyone?
Well, to everyone here: a happy Diwali.
And to a select few, by virtue of sex and location, (two outta three from ASL?!!), a special invite. Rather than an invite, a poll, actually:
This is going out to all you gay bloggers from Bombay. I'd like to have a little get together at my place sometime, and I wonder if you guys will come. For a couple of you, I haven't ever met you, but I'm pretty curious. Some of you do know me, on the other hand. I think it would be a fun time, over music, chatter and some great booze in the house, and I'd like to have a party!
(Strictly not the Delhi farmhouse kind!)
Planning for next Saturday, so please do holler and tell me if it's cool with ya guys. You can leave your response in the comments box here. I've also mailed you individual invites to your blogs, dudes.
And, just for clarification, the gay Bombay bloggers I'm familiar with are:
Amchi Mumbai
Vikster
Nature Boy
Lefty
The Gup Guy
Kris Engayged
Wassup, Doc?
Have I missed anyone?
Sunday, October 30, 2005
A Couple more movies
A Couple more movies
I'm trying very hard to not make this post read like Gup Shup Boy's, but I absolutely must mention how delicious the breakfast this morning at Crepe Station was.... and with that over, I shall now go back to the movie reviews.
***
First on the list, is Latter Days, of which I've seen mentions earlier in both Sin and Aryan's blogs. Sin has a lovely post on this, and all I can do right now is affirm that it's a very cute movie. Just what you'd expect a Hindi gay movie to be like, if there were any Hindi gay movies. I'm not counting My Brother Nikhil here, you understand.
Hot guys, pacy script, taut emotions, lovely divas, and uncomfortable questions about the gay lifestyle. At times, I identify with the sexy West Hollywood playboy (fluff boy?), and at others, I think I'm more like the Mormon... The real CT remains, as always, unsure of himself. Now, isn't that strange...
Second, there was something called The River, a Finnish film, to which I can't find any link online, I'm afraid. Very nice story, placed in a small town, showing how everyone's lives are interconnected to each others', the bungee jump event in the town square, and an attempted suicide. I saw this one alone, cuz Gup Shup was all sleepy and had gone to bed, and i finally turned in myself at 3 am this morning.
Lovely movie, though. And yes, even number two had the perfunctory cute gay couple.
I'm trying very hard to not make this post read like Gup Shup Boy's, but I absolutely must mention how delicious the breakfast this morning at Crepe Station was.... and with that over, I shall now go back to the movie reviews.
***
First on the list, is Latter Days, of which I've seen mentions earlier in both Sin and Aryan's blogs. Sin has a lovely post on this, and all I can do right now is affirm that it's a very cute movie. Just what you'd expect a Hindi gay movie to be like, if there were any Hindi gay movies. I'm not counting My Brother Nikhil here, you understand.
Hot guys, pacy script, taut emotions, lovely divas, and uncomfortable questions about the gay lifestyle. At times, I identify with the sexy West Hollywood playboy (fluff boy?), and at others, I think I'm more like the Mormon... The real CT remains, as always, unsure of himself. Now, isn't that strange...
Second, there was something called The River, a Finnish film, to which I can't find any link online, I'm afraid. Very nice story, placed in a small town, showing how everyone's lives are interconnected to each others', the bungee jump event in the town square, and an attempted suicide. I saw this one alone, cuz Gup Shup was all sleepy and had gone to bed, and i finally turned in myself at 3 am this morning.
Lovely movie, though. And yes, even number two had the perfunctory cute gay couple.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)